


Regnar in a Regova Nest

by spyrograph



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Infidelity, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Political Asylum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-08 17:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14698512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyrograph/pseuds/spyrograph
Summary: Kelas Parmak, humble physician and political refugee, attends a conference at the Delon Institute for Surgical Research. Kelas hopes to make professional connections and find work. Doctor Julain Bashir-Delon has other ideas.





	1. Rooster in the Henhouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thericketandoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thericketandoo/gifts).



Kelas Parmak was aware that Earth possessed more than a few arid regions, but he had yet to visit them and so his overall impression of the planet was one of cloying humidity and perpetual chill. The city of Paris was no exception. The cafe’s windows were thrown wide and the damp evening air was stirred into cool drafts by sluggish ceiling fans.

Sitting at the _bar a vin_ , Parmak could see the majority of the establishment in the mirror’s reflection. This particular cafe was the closest to the Delon Institute for Surgical Research and tonight the vast majority of the patrons were doctors attending the conference currently hosted there.

Kelas had come to Paris specifically to make acquaintances, form professional connections and find some manner of employment. It hardly mattered that employment wasn’t a financial necessity on Earth; for Kelas it was a psychological necessity. What good was a doctor who wasn’t practicing? How could he contribute to the greater good if he wasn’t using all his knowledge and skill? He simply hadn’t been able to accept that he could do nothing and just… exist here. He would be a burden on society! Humans didn’t see it that way- such a strange culture! They valued individuality so greatly, yet they insisted everyone receive exactly the same treatment. Artists and architects were given just as many concessions as litigators and legislators!

The din of tableware, laughter and conversation was decidedly human, but hardly any of them spoke the same language. It amazed him that there were so many distinct human languages. Cardassia only possessed two (one of which was only a backwater dialect) and the idea that people of the same species often relied on universal translator technology to communicate with each other seemed almost extravagant. 

The patron to his right was having a flirtatious conversation via portable communication screen. Kelas tried not to overhear but his own translator kept picking up innuendo and attempting to convey it’s meaning to him with increasingly uncouth terminology. 

Cardassian hearing not being particularly keen, Kelas couldn’t properly hear what they were saying at the table behind him. His translator was Federation-issue, however, which meant it was keyed for use by a human who would have no trouble at all hearing the conversation.

“…Kalla-Nohra has only a handful of documented cases and most of those are Bajoran…”

“… aught to be studied thoroughly in order to prevent a similar industrial accident from occurring.”

No doubt the subject had been prompted by Kelas’ presence. It was exactly like half a dozen conversations he’d overheard today. Federation doctors, human doctors in particular, were far too casual about discussing atrocities that did not directly effect them. 

He was just about to leave when a human, wearing the traditional white coat of a surgeon, sat in the empty seat to Kelas’ left and gestured for the bartender. He was young for a doctor, tall and spare with long neck and a handsome nose. “Gin martini, please,” The young doctor looked up, saw Kelas’ reflection, and smiled.

Kelas realized he’d been caught staring and offered his hand. The human handshake was such an odd gesture but Kelas had repeated it so many times that he’d almost grown used to it. 

“Kelas Parmak,” 

“Julian Bashir-Delon. Please, call me Julian,” Delon. Clearly he had some relation to the Doctor Delon who had organized this conference. Julian was exactly the sort of person that Kelas needed to befriend!

The bartender set an oddly shaped glass on the counter and Julian drank half of it at once.

“I’ll say, I was quite surprised to see a Cardassian in attendance. Not that you aren’t welcome! It’s just that I was under the impression that the Cardassian Union wasn’t interested in sharing it’s medical knowledge with the rest of us.”

“I do not represent the Union,” this another awkward formality that he had been forced to repeat but which he doubted he would ever acclimate to, “I am merely a physician who happens to be Cardassian by birth,” It wasn’t as though his defection were common knowledge.

They discussed the various presentations they’d heard that afternoon. Most of which had centered around the latest discoveries in the Gamma Quadrant. 

“You know, I very nearly accepted a position on Deep Space Nine." Julian sighed, "Oh, I was sore about it when the wormhole was discovered! But now? with the Dominion coming through and all the action that station is seeing these days, I don’t really envy Doctor Pulaski. Speak of the devil.”

Doctor Pulaski, having caught sight of Kelas, was weaving through the closely-placed tables. She didn't seem particularly concerned by the scowls of the patrons she bumped against.

“Fancy seeing you here, Doctor Parmak.” she held his hand a little longer than was comfortable, “I expected you’d be picked apart by Starfleet Intelligence,” Parmak wasn’t entirely sure if she was being facetious. Starfleet had certainly obtained a substantial volume of information from him. In fact, he had spent the majority of the last two years compiling entire text books on Cardassian physiology from memory.

Julian’s curiosity was as obvious as a billboard. Before he could ask, Pulaski seized his hand and pumped vigorously. “Well! If it isn’t the newest Doctor Delon!” 

“It’s _Bashir_ -Delon. Doctor Delon is my boss.” 

She laughed, “You’d better not say that in front of the missus!” Kelas’ translator supplied the word ‘spouse’ but didn’t manage to explain the humor of the statement. He assumed it was context-based or perhaps it was memetic. 

Julian’s smile was a study politeness, “So, how do you know Doctor Parmak?”

“Deep Space Nine’s resident taylor was ill— he was the only Cardassian on the station and I honestly had no experience with Cardassian physiology at that point so I hounded all the hospitals on Cardassia Prime until they finally sent Parmak.”

Kelas did not want to talk about his brief tenure on Deep Space Nine, and so changed the subject. “Doctor Pulaski, Doctor Bashir-Delon and I were just discussing your presentation…” 

The three of them moved to one of the comically small tables and talked shop until Pulaski excused herself. Kelas liked Pulaski well enough, and respected her professionally, but he found her manner overly flirtatious. Being one of few Cardassian men in a female-dominated profession, Pulaski was exactly the sort of woman he’d had to deal with all throughout his career. He must have made some gesture of relief because once she was out of earshot Julian said,

“I know exactly how you feel. She’s quite a personality, isn’t she?”

“Working with her was a harrowing experience,” Kelas sighed.

“Try being one of her students,” Julian received another drink, “She can give a lecture to a room of a hundred and make you feel like she’s personally calling you out for not knowing the subject already.”

“I had a professor like that in my third year who actually made a point of singling me out every chance she could,” Kelas recalled, “I lived in terror of her lectures,”

They exchanged medschool horror stories. It was fascinating how similar their experiences were; the late nights studying, the endless lectures, the rigid structure of written papers, the grueling hours of internship. It was even more fascinating where their stories differed. 

“You mean you lied to get into medical school?” 

“Not, exactly.” Parmak felt a little thrill at the memory of his first transgression against the Cardassian state, "You see, the selection process for higher education is quite extensive. The application has to be approved by three different boards before you can submit it to the school for review. I know the Federation doesn’t assign gender roles to career paths but on Cardassia, doctor’s work is traditionally woman’s work. As a man, I stood very little chance of being accepted to medical school. So I bribed the registrar and he ‘accidentally’ mistyped my name. As far as the Board of Higher Education was concerned they were looking at the credentials of a bright young woman named Kesal.”

“How devious of you!” Julian was very close, his elbow in the middle of the small table, chin resting in his palm. Kelas appreciated the warmth of the human’s legs pressed against his beneath the table; it was quite a lovely contrast to the persistent chill.

“It worked long enough to get my application approved and accepted.” It had taken a rather uncomfortable favor to ensure it was changed back before the term started; the first of many moral compromises that had plagued his career and ultimately brought him here to this planet, this cafe, this conversation with a charming young man.

He did not realize how late it was until the cafe’s workers began putting chairs up on the tables around them. Julian leant forward and asked, “Do you have any plans tomorrow night?” 

Kelas had wanted to view a performance by a renowned cellist. Until this morning, he had not been aware that human musical performances were organized in such a way that patrons had to commit to attendance well in advance and so had not been able to procure a ticket. “None at the moment,” he said.

“I was wondering,” Julian leaned even closer, “if you’d like to have dinner with me? Just the two of us? At my residence?”

Kelas didn’t even hesitate, “That sounds lovely,” 

Julian’s smile was absolutely enthralling.


	2. Birds of a Feather

Unwilling to part ways, they continued their conversation on the sidewalk until an ugly metal barrier creaked down over the cafe’s windows. Kelas couldn’t imagine that it was necessary but Paris was a city obsessed with antiquity and authenticity. The last of the cafe’s employees locked the door and bid them goodnight.

“It is getting late, isn’t it?” Julian yawned. They exchanged contact information and reaffirmed tomorrow’s dinner plans.

“Good night, Doctor Parmak,”

“Good night, Julian.” After two years living among humans using the given name of a casual acquaintance still felt strange.

Doctor Bashir-Delon, smiling broadly, looked back twice before turning the corner. Kelas was unsure what to make of this behavior. Perhaps the human was more drunk than he let on. 

The low-hanging clouds had been displaced by a brisk wind. There was no moon, and the sky was flecked with constellations whose names he did not know. Ships streaked into the void, and orbital stations made their leisurely journeys between horizons. Cardassia’s distant sun was not visible from this hemisphere.

Kelas was sober enough and the alcohol made him feel quite warm; he walked the four kilometers to his hotel. He was almost disappointed when no one stopped him and asked for his identification documents. He was still unused to the idea that anyone could walk through a city at night, unchecked. 

The few people he saw were humans; small groups headed to or from an evening’s revelry, and couples sharing intimate moments unabashed. 

It left him keenly aware of his solitude. Kelas had always been an outsider — the boy who didn’t play Guls and Guards, the only man in his graduating class, one of few men among professional cohorts. Even his attractiveness had separated Kelas from his peers. And yet being the only member of his species on this planet was an entirely new level of alienation. 

Kelas did his best to shake his melancholy mood. He had just made a very promising connection with a charming human doctor, after all! He had been in Paris for little more than a day, and already the potential for a establishing a medical practice on Earth had increased.

When he reached his room, he sat down at the computer terminal, determined to learn what he could about Doctor Julian Bashir-Delon. It simply wouldn’t do to show up at the man’s home and know nothing more about him than his name. If he had been on Cardassia, Kelas would have started by sending an inquiry to the Scientific Publications Archive to learn what papers the doctor had authored. Then he would have sifted through the other names associated with Bashir-Delon’s work and hopefully discovered some mutual acquaintance who would be willing to fill him in over lunch. Fortunately, this wasn’t Cardassia, and Kelas could take a much more direct approach.

Kelas was still unused to the fact that Earth had a massive interpersonal social network. The entirety of human knowledge was public domain and accessible by anyone with a computer terminal or a PADD! What’s more, unmonitored and unrestricted access to this network was treated as a basic right extended to anyone residing on Earth! 

A single subnet search found Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir-Delon in the personnel listing for the Delon Surgical Institute. A cleverly shot holoimage made the young man appear ten years older, next to an impressively long list of accomplishments and awards. 

Julian Bashir-Delon had graduated valedictorian at Starfleet Medical and immediately taken a position at Delon Institute. Kelas was puzzled. Surely even the Federation would hold someone to a commitment of service after providing them with an education? Further searching revealed it was a fairly common arrangement. An individual in the sciences could postpone their first tour of duty almost indefinitely citing continued education in a specialized field. They were obligated to report for regular training exercises, often worked on joint-Starfleet projects, and could be “drafted” in an emergency. Kelas suspected it was also a means of protecting more valuable assets. Sending your best and brightest to the front lines was hardly advantageous, after all. 

Kelas had met a brilliant young man with familial connections to the most renowned surgical hospital in the Federation. Even better, Julian Bashir-Delon could hold a conversation and wasn’t bad to look at either. Kelas couldn’t quite believe his fortune. 

***

Kelas’ morning was taken up by a presentation on cross-species applications for physical therapy techniques. Afterward, Kelas struck up a conversation with one of the panelists, an Andorian massage therapist specializing in heat-application and subsonic stimulation. It was a lovely conversation until he mentioned the xenobiologist Crell Moset. 

“I’m sorry, did you say Moset? As in, Crell Moset?”

Kelas felt his stomach clench. Kelas made a conscious effort to refrain from mentioning Moset by name, but he was not always successful. This was not a conversation he wanted to have, “On Cardassia, the name Crell Moset is nearly synonymous with xenobiology. It is quite impossible to discuss modern Cardassian understanding of the biological sciences without referencing Moset’s work.” It was unfortunate that elsewhere Moset was known only for his unconventional and controversial methods of research. 

“You’re telling me that Cardassia’s entire body of knowledge relevant to non-Cardassian biology is based on that [LITERARY REFERENCE, POSSESSIVE, unethical researcher] [UNTRANSLATABLE]?”

She was angry, and rightfully so! There was nothing he could say that would mollify her. This was not the first time Kelas had found himself in the unenviable position of defending himself without commiting to some opinion on Moset’s work. It was tiring to be the target of the moral outrage of every Federation citizen who had read an article about Fostossa virus. 

“Excuse me. Doctor Parmak?” an older human with light brown hair interjected. 

Kelas wanted desperately to deny his identity and escape. It was very likely that this man had overheard their conversation, recognized Kelas, and decided to throw his weight behind the Andorian’s anger. “Yes?” 

“The Kelas Parmak credited as editor of Starfleet’s latest publications on Cardassian biology?”

“The same.” Kelas braced himself for the oncoming deluge of moral outrage directed at events beyond his control, 

“Wendell Greer,” He shook Kelas’ hand with an unnecessary amount of vigor. Greer was seemingly unaware of the disgruntled look he received from Kelas’ verbal assailant. “I’m working on a paper about the application of Vulcan accupressure in patients with substantially different neuromuscular nodal positions, and I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to offer a few insights?”

Never look beneath a riding hound! “Certainly.” Kelas had only a general idea of the subject, but he was immensely grateful for the interruption. He excused himself and allowed Greer to lead him away from the unpleasant conversation.

“I apologize for the behavior of my cohort,” Greer said, once they were out of sight, “I’d hate for you to come away from this conference with a low opinion of alternative treatments because of one person’s [UNKNOWN, IDIOMATIC, related to perspective]!”

“I thought she would eat me alive!” Kelas laughed.

“Would you care to join me for lunch?” Greer offered. “I promise I won’t eat you!” 

Greer’s pale eyes reminded Kelas of someone he wanted forget… but Kelas had no other plans, and dining alone always felt so terribly awkward; particularly when he was the only Cardassian in the room.

“I’d be delighted.”

They took lunch at a busy replimat a few blocks away. It was uncomfortably bright inside, and so Kelas opted to leave his light-filtering glasses on. Upbeat music played from speakers encouraged the boisterous chatter to greater volume. The multicolored plastiform seating was occupied by dozens of non-human patrons, and the smells of disparate cuisines mingled disharmoniously. 

Greer insisted that this particular replimat had the best poutine in the entire Federation. Kelas was unimpressed by the dish— fried tubers and chunks of curdled milk in a meat reduction sauce. It was entirely too bland for his palette, but he refrained from pouring the entire shaker of salt onto it. (He was unsure if it was considered rude or if very salty food was too unpalatable for humans to contemplate.)

“So what brings you to Earth?”

“Certainly not the weather.” 

Greer laughed. 

“Honestly, I felt the need to bridge the gap between my people and the Federation.”

“A self-appointed ambassador, eh?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the clatter of melamine trays and raucous laughter from a table of Andorians. 

Greer leaned over the table; his shirt was in danger of besmirchment. “Are you on Xenofinder?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a social networking app for people looking to make connections with non-humans in 001.” 

“I had not heard of it until now,”

Greer said, “You know, you’re probably the only Cardassian on the planet.” Kelas was almost certainly the only Cardassian in the quadrant. “You’d get more than enough attention.”

At Greer’s prompting Kelas downloaded the application, created a very minimal profile, and began browsing. He was immediately struck by the casual nature of the profile descriptions and the prevalence of uncensored nudity. 

Kelas frowned, “Is this network often used for finding… intimate relationships?”

“Well, yeah.” Greer met his eyes briefly. “But I’ve made more than a few friends through it.” 

If Kelas were honest with himself, he would admit to being terribly lonely. He was certainly touch-starved. The way he had enjoyed Doctor Bashir-Delon’s casual contact beneath the cafe table was proof enough that Kelas needed something physical. But he wasn’t desperate enough to consider Greer’s tentative suggestion. Even if Kelas were inclined to indulge in casual encounters, he could hardly agree to such a poorly presented invitation!

“Thank you for lunch, Doctor Greer, and the enlightening conversation.” 

They exchanged contact information before parting; it was merely a formality. Both men knew they had nothing further to discuss. 

***

The lecture Kelas chose to attend that afternoon had been wildly mis-billed as “stimulating”. The doctor at the lectern had an almost preternatural ability to drain the interest from his subject. His voice was nearly the same flat tone as the air conditioning unit, and he was all but reciting his paper verbatim. Kelas was not alone in his boredom; many of the attendees were staring at their comm PADDs. This was another quirk of human culture -- it would be impolite to leave, but it was not considered rude to use one’s PADD. Perhaps it was assumed that the PADD was being used to take notes.

Kelas tapped at his PADD and felt like a schoolchild doodling in class. 

A small red dot appeared over the Xenofinder icon. It was a “connection request” from a user named PressYourButtons. The profile photograph was very clearly Doctor Wendell Greer. How presumptuous! Kelas almost deleted the application— but curiosity and boredom conspired to get the better of him, and he tapped through a list of potential “connections”.

Kelas was surprised by the diversity. Every Federation member planet was represented. Even Vulcan! There were more than a few Klingons seeking gentle lovers, (was there a word in their language for unsadomasochistic preferences?) and even a Ferengi (Kelas could have done without knowing that Ferengi ears were an erogenous zone.) Most of Xenofinder’s non-human users seemed to be interested in finding mates of their own species, and yet it was humans who made up the bulk of the profiles. Most of the human users had their faces partially or completely obscured. All of them were interested in extra-species relations.

The semi-anonymous nature of these photographs only made sense if there were social stigma attached to xenophilia. It was almost comforting to know that human culture did, in fact, have some sense of sexual morality.

The application’s search parameters allowed him to browse potential “connections” according to geographic location, interests, age, gender, species, and various morphological considerations. The implications of such a thing were terrifying. Someone could reasonably use this application to find a specific individual with little more than a physical description! 

Kelas had been raised by cautious middle-class people. People who worked hard and kept their heads down and taught their children that knowledge was “dangerous as a greased knife”. Kelas, though, had an unfortunate streak of curiosity. 

On a whim, Kelas entered the parameters: Human, Male, Age between 30-35, Height between 1.8m and 2m, Location within 5km. The search function returned a single Xenofinder user: hobbyPodiatrist. hobbyPodiatrist’s only photograph featured a pair of human hands massaging a blue humanoid foot and a medical tricorder nearby. It was captioned, “Let’s play doctor.” 

There was little doubt in Kelas’ mind that this profile belonged to Doctor Julian Bashir-Delon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANY THANKS TO @28ghosts for beta/editing
> 
> Hm. Yes, well. This fic literally started life as a typo. I am continually amazed at how it's progressing. The next chapter will have actual smut.


End file.
